


The Complex Magic Of The Stars

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: Different First Meeting, Breakfast, Drugs, Five Times They Met, Fluff, John & Sherlock After Uni, John & Sherlock as Children, John & Sherlock as Teens, Kisses, M/M, Starry Night, museum, sand castle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's and Sherlock's paths crossed many times. John wonders if it's just coincidence, but Sherlock knows the universe is rarely so lazy.</p><p><i>Hold my hand, Doctor. Try to see what I see. We're so lucky we're still alive to see this beautiful world. Look at the sky. It's not dark and black and without character. The black is in fact deep blue. And over there! Lighter blue. And blowing through the blueness and the blackness, the winds swirling through the air. And there shining, burning, bursting through, the stars! Can you see how they roar their light? Everywhere we look, complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes.</i><br/>      <i>--Vincent Van Gogh in the "Vincent and the Doctor" episode of <a href="https://youtu.be/gQg6FvMJSPU">Doctor Who</a></i></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><img/><br/>"Starry Night" art by <a href="http://angelasky.deviantart.com/art/Sherlock-and-John-starry-night-414947686">AngelaSky at Deviant Art</a><br/></p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The Seaside

"Go play with your brother," Sherlock's father said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if Mycroft were playing -- Sherlock was sure his older brother was probably off staring into a mirror somewhere.

His mother looked over. "At least, go outside. We bring you here to get some fresh air. Go outside and get it."

Sherlock stood up and humphed a little. He even stomped, just for good measure, as he headed out the door. He walked for a while and then headed to the edge of the sea, letting the water come up and soak his shoes.

John was sitting in the sand, trying to build his castle. It kept crumbling and killing the prince and princess he'd made out of sticks. He needed more water. He glanced at his mum, hat over her face, and he hurried to the water for just a little bit. Then he saw the boy from the fancy house on the beach.

"Hey, your shoes are getting wet," he said stupidly, holding his little bucket of water.

"You're joking -- are they?" Sherlock said to the boy who for some reason was speaking to him.

John frowned and went back to filling his bucket, trying to get the sand out of it. What did he care if that boy ruined his shoes? He glanced back at his mum to make sure the hat was still over her face as he finished up. "Don't go crying when you mess them up," John said as he walked off, going back to his castle. Yes, this was working much better. 

Sherlock walked over to the boy and his castle. "That won't last long, you know," he said.

John looked up for only a moment before going back to his work. "Neither will your shoes," he said.

"The tide'll wash it away within the hour," Sherlock said. "This leather will dry by tomorrow morning, sooner if I leave them out in the sun."

John looked over at the sea, already just a bit closer than before. "Well . . . I'll just make it again tomorrow," he said quietly, packing in the sand for the next wall.

"Maybe I won't be here tomorrow," Sherlock said. He took the boy's bucket and headed away.

"Hey!" John called out before he saw the boy coming back with more water. Oh. "I can still build a castle without you. Just like I did this one."

"But it won't be as fun, will it, all on your own. Don't you want someone to like it?" Sherlock said. "She's not interested, is she?" he added, nodding towards the woman the boy kept looking at.

John pushed the hair out of his eyes with his whole hand before looking up at the boy. "I like it," he said, admiring his work. "And I'm sure my mum will, too." He put the last bucketful of sand on top and smiled at his work, standing the two royals at the door.

Suddenly he heard a rushing sound and his sister kicked the whole thing down. "Castles are lame!" she laughed.

"Harriet, I hate you!" John yelled, feeling his eyes burning. He frantically scooped up sand to try to make it again. He hadn't even shown his mum yet.

"Hey," Sherlock yelled at the girl. "No rough play on the beach. My brother was arrested yesterday for a similar offense. Don't do it again or I'll call the police." He watched her pull a face and walk away. "Is that your sister?"

"Unfortunately," John said, packing in sand and making the first wall again. He wiped at his face, but there was sand on his hands and it smeared a bit. He didn't want this boy to see him crying.

"Here," Sherlock said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. "You'll probably have to spit on it -- don't use the water, it's too salty for your face."

John looked up now and shook his head. He'd only ever seen his father with one of those, and it was odd to see this boy have one. He packed in the sand and had only put the second wall down when his mum called out.

"Come on, John! The tide is coming in," she said.

"No! Mum, I'm not finished," he whined.

"Come on now, you can make another one tomorrow." She packed up her chair and started folding the towel.

"Did you see the first one?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh John, what did you do to your face?" she asked without answering his question. She wiped it clean with the towel. "Come on. Say goodbye to your friend and let's go."

John kicked down his walls angrily and started packing up his things. "I hate Harriet," he said to the boy.

"Hey," Sherlock said, grabbing the boy's arm. "I thought your castle was good. If it weren't for the tide, I'm sure it'd have stood for a couple hundred years. You should be an architect when you grow up."

John regarded him for a moment and finally smiled lightly. "Come make a bigger one with me tomorrow," he said. He reached into his bucket and pulled out the star-shaped mould. "Here," he said, pushing it into Sherlock's hand.

"John! Let's go!"

"Bye," John said, smiling wider now as he walked over to his mum. She took his hand, shouted for Harriet again and led them off. John kept looking back at the boy, wishing he'd asked his name.

Sherlock took the star and walked back to the house. His mother was making tea in the kitchen when he came in. "What's that you've got?" she said.

"A toy, I guess," Sherlock said.

"Did you steal it from someone? Please tell me you didn't steal it, Sherlock," his mother said.

"I didn't," Sherlock said. "Someone gave it to me."

"Who? Have you made a friend?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said.

"Are you going to go play with him again?" she asked. "Why don't you bring him round for lunch sometime this week?" She smiled over at him. 

"I can't," Sherlock said. "He's leaving tomorrow."

"Oh," she said, a little disappointedly. "Why'd he give you the toy?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock said. He got up and went to his room, putting the star in the inside pocket of his suitcase.


	2. At The Museum

Sherlock hadn't wanted to go on the stupid school trip. What was the point? He'd already been to all the best museums, and he probably knew more about the art than any stupid teacher could tell him. But that wasn't the real problem, of course. The real problem was being around the other boys. He hated them. He put up a mental wall between himself and them, as if that would keep the other museum-goers from knowing he was part of their group.

"Hey Watson! I'll give you a fiver if you kiss it!"

John turned to see what Dimmock was pointing at. It was a painting of a naked woman looking over her shoulder, but she was very ugly. John wrinkled his nose and looked back at him. "Is that all your mum's worth these days?"

They all laughed as Dimmock punched John on the arm. They were making their way out of the museum and John couldn't be happier. It was the most boring school trip, but it had been better than school work. In the next room there was a crowd of students from another school and John's eyes were drawn to the boy walking alone in the back. He looked . . . familiar maybe?

Sherlock was doing his best to stay as far away from his classmates as he could without drawing the attention of the teachers. He loitered just a little longer at each piece, he was a bit slower leaving the rooms. He noticed another group of kids in the hallway -- some girls whispering to each other and some lads laughing. He looked closely at their faces. He felt like he hated all of them as well. Except one boy who seemed different even though Sherlock didn't know why. 

John followed his group outside where they waited for the bus to come pick them up again. His friends started joking about the painting again and John fell back a bit, thinking about that boy he'd seen. He looked through the windows and tried to see him again, but who knew where he was now.

When the teacher announced they were entering the last room, Sherlock saw his chance. He called out, "I need the toilet -- I'll wait for you outside" and rushed out of the room before anyone said anything. He headed straight out the door and looked around, thinking about how easy it'd be to just get a cab and go somewhere else. His parents probably wouldn't even care. Or maybe they would. He wasn't sure. But the school would definitely care and he couldn't be bothered dealing with all that. He stepped to the side and pulled a cigarette out of his jacket and lit it. He noticed the kids from the other school standing around. He saw the boy he'd decided he didn't hate.

"Hey," Sherlock said to him.

John looked up and flushed as if the boy knew John had been thinking about him. "Hey," he said back, moving closer to lean on the wall with him. He glanced at the cigarette in his hand and pushed his own hands into his pockets.

"Those your friends?" Sherlock asked, nodding towards the group near the fountain.

"Yup," John said, looking over at them. He was sure one of them was going to get pushed into the fountain before the bus came. "Some school trip, huh?" He looked back at the boy and admired his features.

"It's ridiculous," Sherlock said. "Which one's your girlfriend?"

"What?" John asked, looking at his classmates and then back to him. "None. What makes you think one of them is?"

"I meant, of the girls, not the boys," Sherlock said. "But I find your reaction quite interesting." He stubbed his cigarette out. "I'm just trying to make small talk. I'm not good at it."

"Why is it interesting?" John asked. "I just wondered why you thought I'd be with one of them. Any of them," he added.

"You're a good looking guy, I assumed you had a girlfriend," Sherlock said. "Perhaps you should relax a bit."

"I'm relaxed," John said. "I don't think your girlfriend will appreciate the smoking if she has to kiss you," he added.

"No one has to kiss me," Sherlock said. "I don't have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a friend."

"What if someone wants to kiss you and they're holding back because of the cigarette?" John asked, smiling over at him.

"I can't see that happening," Sherlock said. He leaned back against the building. "Did you like any of the art?"

"Yeah, some of it was pretty good. Did you?" John asked, looking around again. His bus still wasn't here yet. He hoped it was stuck somewhere.

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "I tend to like the pictures they don't put on the postcards though. But it was nice to see Starry Night. It's weird that we were in the same room as something that once in the same room as Vincent Van Gogh."

John thought about that and smiled. "Yeah, that's amazing, actually. That makes the trip a little more interesting." He sighed when he saw the bus pulling up. "That's me," he said.

"Well, thanks for being my friend for a few minutes," Sherlock said.

John turned to look at him again, building his nerve. He was never going to see this boy again, so why not? He leaned up and kissed his cheek quickly, hurrying off so he wouldn't have to face him. "Bye!" he called as he joined his friends and climbed on the bus. 

"Who was that you were kissing, Watson?" Dimmock laughed.

John shrugged and didn't answer, smiling to himself. He couldn't believe he'd really done it.

Sherlock's face flushed and he fought the urge to put his hand to his cheek. He couldn't believe that boy had really done it.


	3. At The Cafe

Sherlock had hoped university would be better than college which he'd hoped would be better than school. He was wrong on all accounts. Yes, he'd met a few professors who challenged him but mostly it was the other students. He still hated them all.

So he left campus as often as he could, taking a taxi to the other side of town just to be away from his classmates. He usually just wandered, occasionally going into a shop, occasionally stopping for a cup of tea. This morning he walked into a small cafe but it was surprisingly busy, and he considered turning around and walking out. Instead he took the one of the only seats left at the counter and nodded for a cup of tea.

John arrived at the bus stop and realised he'd left too early. But he supposed this was easier, actually, because the goodbyes would have been hard and now he could just go. The army wasn't really his first choice, but they were going to pay for medical school so here he was. He sat on the bench and waited for the bus. After a few minutes he felt the chill -- it was so early -- and he noticed a cafe across the street. He shouldered his bag and crossed the street, sitting down at the last seat at the counter.

Sherlock looked over at the guy who had sat down next to him. He was carrying a big bag which he'd tried to squeeze under the counter and it was currently pressing against Sherlock's legs and annoying him. The guy was probably a student and this also annoyed Sherlock. Except that he didn't look quite as obnoxious as students usually did. In fact, he looked a little familiar.

"Your bag's against my legs," Sherlock said.

"What? Oh," he said, pulling his bag close to himself. "Sorry." He glanced at the man, who had a familiar face, and went back to his tea.

"Where are you off to?" Sherlock asked. If this man was going to invade his breakfast and become his newest enemy, he might as well find out as much about him as he could.

"Training," John said. "I joined the army."

"That sounds quite serious," Sherlock said, staring into his cup. "Why would you do that?"

"Medical school is expensive," John said simply. He took a long sip and looked over at him properly. "How come you're out here this early?"

"I'm doing a study on people who frequent cafes early in the morning," Sherlock said. "Do you mind if I interview you?"

John raised his brows and smiled lightly. "Ask away," he said. He glanced out the window to make sure the bus wasn't here yet before looking back at him.

Sherlock got a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote the date at the top of the page. "How do you take your tea?" he asked.

"Just milk," John answered, taking another sip.

"Will you be eating any breakfast? If so, what? If not, why?"

"I will not because I am nervous and my stomach isn't up for it," John said. He hadn't told anyone that. He supposed it was easier to a stranger.

"Why are you so nervous?" Sherlock asked.

"It's the army. Hard training, new people, the possibility of going to war . . ." John glanced out if the window again but he was still good.

"Just stay then," Sherlock said quickly and then looked down at his pad of paper. "And your family? Sisters? Brothers? Only child?"

"I can't. I have to go to medical school. I have a sister. She's awful," John said.

Sherlock scribbled that down even though he had no idea why. He was getting a bit carried away with the ruse. "And you're local to this area?" he asked.

"I just finished uni," he said. "And you?"  
  
"I'm asking the questions," Sherlock said. "I've got to stay out of it or the results might be tainted. Are you currently in a long term relationship?"

"I'm leaving for a year," John said in way of an answer. "And if you don't write down your answers nothing will be tainted."

"Have you ever been in a long term relationship?" Sherlock asked. "I may be from the area," he added quietly.

"Sorry, what does my relationship status have to do with eating breakfast at the cafe?" He smiled, nudging him lightly. He pulled out his own pen and started doodling on his napkin. "I have been," he said.

"Man or woman?" Sherlock asked. "Just getting demographical info."

"Woman," John said, looking over at him. "What about you? Off the record?" He smiled.

"I don't generally get on with anyone regardless of gender," Sherlock said. "Back to breakfast . . . if you were going to eat, how do you prefer your eggs: fried, scrambled, or poached?"

"Scrambled," John said, scribbling little stars on the napkin.

"Excellent choice," Sherlock said. "And toast -- white or brown? Butter or jam?"

"White, butter and jam," John smiled. "Maybe when I come back we can get breakfast and you can have a visual aid," he added. It was easy being bold when he would be leaving anyways.

"Perhaps, though I assume this research will be completed by then," Sherlock said. "All right, all I need now is your signature to allow your participation and your phone number -- for follow up questions, obviously."

"Obviously," John said, watching this guy for a moment too long before signing and copying his phone number down. "Can I have yours?"

"I'll text you later," Sherlock said as he stood up. He pushed his cup away and set a couple coins on the counter.

John stood as well and shouldered his bag, pushing the napkin at the man. "Here, I signed this too," he said. He flushed lightly, felt a bit silly giving him a picture, but he did it anyways. He had doodled a couple stars in the corner, trying to draw them without the middle connecting parts but they came out a bit strange with the arms not matching. 

Sherlock slipped it into his pocket. "I'll sell it when you become famous," he said. "Good luck. You'll be brilliant." He reached over to shake his hand.

John shook his hand as the bus pulled up. "Thank you. See you around," he said as he walked out of the cafe.

Sherlock watched him go and then walked back to his own place. He added the number to his phone, even though he had no intention of ever contacting him again. He slipped the napkin into his desk drawer and decided to lie down for a nap. He thought about the guy on the bus heading to training and realised he hoped he'd be okay.


	4. At The Hospital

John hated working in the A & E. He wanted to be a trauma surgeon where there was excitement and thrill. Here it was mostly fat men with chest pains, kids with broken arms, or drunken idiots. But he was almost done rounding and soon he would be on his own and able to choose whatever he wanted to do. 

Somewhere behind him he heard the radio system announcing a new patient coming in and several people groaned. John looked around with a furrowed brow -- that was not an appropriate response no matter how boring -- and then the other doctor was looking at him. "New guy, this one is all yours."

John rolled his eyes and waited for the patient to arrive. A nurse informed him that it was going to be drugs, he was going to be rude and mean, and then he was going to walk out anyways. John kept the information in the back of his mind, now curious to see this person who seemed to be a regular.

Lestrade came through the door, his body pressed against Sherlock's. This was partly to hold him up and partly to disguise the handcuffs. He didn't want to draw any more attention to them than he knew Sherlock would on his own. He had been mumbling since he'd been picked up, occasionally shouting incoherently. Lestrade has already called Mycroft who agreed that Sherlock should go to hospital and had mentioned inpatient rehab as an option. Obviously Lestrade didn't pass that info on to Sherlock at this point.

"This man is hurting me," Sherlock said loudly.

"Shut up now," Lestrade said under his breath. "You're better off here than in jail."  
  
"Let me go home," Sherlock said. "I'm exhausted. I'm just exhausted. That's all." His legs wobbled a bit.

"No, you're not," Lestrade said. "If only it were that easy."  
  
He walked Sherlock to a small room in back, nodding at the women at the desk. He uncuffed Sherlock and set him into the chair. Sherlock tried to stand, so Lestrade pushed him back down. After he attempted twice more, Sherlock's left hand was cuffed to the chair.

"Just shut up and sit still until the doctor comes in," Lestrade said. He sat himself down as well and rubbed his hands over his face.

"Don't let them do anything to me," Sherlock said. His eyes were having trouble focusing so he closed them.

"They'll just take your vitals and then you'll have to sleep it off," Lestrade said.

"Everything about me is vital," Sherlock mumbled.

"Right," Lestrade said. "I forgot . . . what was I thinking?" He looked over at him. "You'll destroy that, you know, one of these days. One of these days your brilliance . . . it'll be gone. Or you will be."

"Who are you talking to?" Sherlock asked. His eyes were still closed.

"I have no idea," Lestrade said. "I really don't anymore."

John came into the small room and did a double take. It was the guy from the coffee shop when he was leaving for the army. The sight of him now made John's heart ache a bit. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, realising he had never known his name. "We need to take some blood work and start you on fluids to flush these drugs out. Can you tell me what you've taken?"

"Time," Sherlock said. He looked over at Lestrade. "I take my time. Just give me something so I can sleep, all right?"

"No, not until I figure out what exactly you're on," John said. He put the file down and used his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's heart, which was racing in his chest. The nurse came in and took his blood pressure which was through the roof. "Can you help me out?" he asked the man with him.

"Heroin, but I don't know much more."

Sherlock laughed.

John moved and turned to the nurse, listing off medication to put through the IV. "Is someone coming for him?"

"I've called his brother," the man said.

"Turncoat," Sherlock called to Lestrade. "Doctor," he said turning to face him. "I do not have a brother. This man is my civil partner but he's cross with me because I didn't iron his shirt the way he liked. Could you please just leave us alone for a few moments to resolve this issue?"  
  
"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. "Sorry about all this," he said, standing up and moving over to the doctor. He showed him his badge. "I'm looking after him but trust me, that's it. This man is incapable of being in any kind of partnership with another human being." He glanced over at Sherlock who was pulling on his coat with his free hand. "Listen, we need to keep this a bit . . . quiet. His brother is well-connected . . ." He left it at that. Then he leaned a little closer. "As soon as he's stable, he'll be taken to a private clinic."  
  
"What did you just say?" Sherlock said, trying to stand up but failing to do so.

"Just shut up and do whatever the doctor says," Lestrade said, sitting back down again.

"I think that's for the best," John said. "We need to get him into a bed to lie down." He turned to face Sherlock. "I'm going to give you something to help you calm down because your heart is going too fast. Will you cooperate or will I need to call security to strap you down?"

"I haven't decided yet," Sherlock said. "Let me think about it."  
  
"Sherlock," Lestrade said. "He'll behave," he assured the doctor.

John nodded and left the room to find a bed for him, coming back a few minutes later. "We're going into number nine, so we can have more privacy." John led them to the room, helping hold Sherlock up, and then shut the door while the officer handcuffed one of his hands to the bed again. He started the IV and even set the medicine up since the nurse seemed reluctant to come in. "Sherlock, how many times do you get this high?"

"Eleven," Sherlock said. His eyes closed a little and then opened them. "What? What did you ask me?"

"How frequently," John specified.

"He's been bad just recently," Lestrade interrupted.

"How frequent is the right amount?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, it doesn't matter now," John sighed. He was already giving Sherlock the relaxer and the counter. By morning he was going to be sober and most likely have memory loss. "I've done all I can for now. I will wait for his brother to discuss the rest of his . . .treatment," he said to the cop. 

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Sherlock said. "I'm an adult."

Lestrade made a little laugh.

"Talk to me," Sherlock said, looking at the doctor.

John held his gaze for a moment but before he could speak he was called out by the nurse, who was now handing him Sherlock's blood work results. He came back into the room and looked at Sherlock again. "The fact that you are still alive with these numbers is astonishing. Your organs were so close to failing . . . you are better than this," he said, unable to help the last part. The stranger from the cafe was always in the back of his head, remembered randomly, and to think he could have died without John knowing felt odd. "You have time to fix this, Sherlock." 

"I changed my mind," Sherlock said, turning his head away. "Talk to him instead." He made a little noise. "I feel sick," he said, grabbing at the IV bag. "What's in here? What are you giving me -- it's making me sick."

John swatted his hand away and raised the pole out of reach. "I'll need to know where he is being taken to I can call in a report. Do you have the number or should I wait for his brother?" He didn't even look at Sherlock now, speaking to the officer instead. 

"I'm not going away with my brother," Sherlock said as if to himself. He closed his eyes. "I'm leaving all of you right now."

John looked over at him and studied his face. He was so handsome, and he had seemed so charming at the cafe. How had things got to this point? Had he always been like this and John just caught him on a good day? There was another knock at the door and John excused himself. Before he left he said, "That boy from the cafe would miss you." Ignoring the officer's odd look, John stepped out and finally met Sherlock's brother. They spoke for a few minutes while John explained the situation and the results.  

Sherlock tuned them out. He didn't care about Mycroft or Lestrade or even what that doctor said. That doctor had been bothering Sherlock for years . . . He went away from all of them and went to the only place where he was always safe -- his mind. It was empty in there tonight, dark and quiet.

John came back into the room alone. "You're being discharged directly to the clinic your brother has chosen. I need you to sign this form, Sherlock."

"I want to stay here," Sherlock said sleepily. "Please, it's nice here. I can see the sky."

John glanced around even though he was well aware there were no windows. "You're in a hospital, Sherlock," he said gently. The officer got up and went to talk to Sherlock's brother and John moved closer to him. "Why did you do this, Sherlock?" he asked softly. 

"To show you the stars . . ." Sherlock mumbled.

John looked up and then back to Sherlock sadly. "Get better and show me for real," he said, knowing Sherlock wouldn't remember any of it. 

"Army," Sherlock said and then he fell into a deep sleep and nothing troubled him in the slightest.

John pet his hair lightly before turning to leave. At the door he paused and went back to Sherlock, pulling out his pen and drawing two stars on Sherlock's wrist. He wondered what Sherlock would think of them in the morning. 


	5. At Baker Street

Fate really did have a funny way of working. Normally John thought such things were silly but he didn't know how else to explain this. He had been walking in the park and happened upon an old friend. He hadn't even wanted to speak to him at first, and now here he was sharing a flat with Sherlock -- Sherlock from the cafe before he left for the army and from the A & E. But fate seemed to have used all of its efforts on John, because it was clear that Sherlock didn't remember him at all. He looked good now -- very thin but tall and handsome and healthy so John hoped that meant he was clean. "So . . .you work for the police now?" 

"Occasionally," Sherlock said, fiddling with some things in a box. "Do you have a job yet?"

"I'm looking," John said. His career as a trauma surgeon was cut short when his injury from the war left him with tremor in his hand. He didn't like thinking about it too much. "What have you got there?"

"Just some of my property," Sherlock said, shutting the box. "Perhaps you should stay away from my things -- I mean, I do experiments and such and I can't have things tampered with."

"I wasn't going to snoop or try to rob you," he said. "I was only curious."

"I've got nothing against curiosity," Sherlock said. "Still -- I like my privacy. I intend to respect yours."

"Well, I'm going to respect yours too."

"Good," Sherlock said. "I apologise -- I'm not particularly good with other humans. But I'll try to . . . be less bad at it. I don't want it to unpleasant for either of us."

"Right," John nodded. He remembered Sherlock's bad behaviour at the hospital, but John didn't mention that. If Sherlock didn't remember him, he would think John was a crazy person. "Want to get dinner?"

Sherlock looked over. "Um, yes, I suppose that'd be all right."

"I just . . . I was going to order something but we can go out if you like. Get to know each other since we're sharing a flat and all."

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure about that. Generally the more people knew about him, the less they liked him and he really wanted this to work -- the flatshare, not any kind of friendship. Sherlock didn't have friends and really didn't need them. But there was no use being antagonistic with this man right off the bat.

"Okay fine," Sherlock said. "Let's order in. There's a Chinese nearby -- I think I've got a menu." He dug under some mess on the desk, found it and handed it to John. "Here," he said. "I'll just take fried rice and I'm happy to treat this time."

"Oh, um, okay," John said. He pulled out his phone and called in the order for delivery. "So . . . you work for the police then?"

Sherlock looked over. "Are you obsessed with the police or something? Why do you keep asking that?" he asked a little sharply.

John tried to remember if he had asked already. "Forget it," he said. He pushed himself up and moved into the kitchen slowly, pouring himself some water and leaning on the counter to drink.

"Are you a criminal then?" Sherlock asked."Is that why you're so obsessed with my work with the police?" He paused. "I'd wash that before drinking out of it."

John ignored him and finished his drink before sighing softly. "I'm not a criminal. I told you I just wanted to know more about you. If you don't want to, just say so. We can just be flatmates."

"If we're flatmates, we should know something about each other," Sherlock said. "Sorry, you're right. It's good you're not a criminal." He sat silently for a moment. He was really bad at small talk. "Um, have you got a girlfriend or boyfriend or something?" he asked.

"Um, no I don't. I only just got back so there hasn't really been time." He made his way into the sitting room again. "What about you?"

"No," Sherlock said a little too quickly. He swallowed. "So does this mean you'll be out looking? Will you be bringing people back to the flat? I'm not sure I want people coming back to the flat."

"No. I mean, I'm not looking right now," John said. "I won't do anything to disrespect our arrangement here."

"But that's something you're interested in?" Sherlock asked.

"Eventually, yeah," John nodded. "Are you?"

"I can't see that happening," Sherlock said.

The phrase triggered a memory for John. Was Sherlock the boy at the museum? He tried hard to remember and was pretty sure he was.

"Still, to each their own," Sherlock continued. "But please . . . I don't want drunken women here. Not that they'd have to be drunken to be with you . . . just . . . Sorry, I'm . . ." Luckily, there was a knock at the door and Sherlock jumped up to get the food.

John watched him go, glancing at his box but taking his own seat instead. "So you've never wanted a relationship?" he asked when Sherlock came back.  

Sherlock handed John's food to him and then sat down with his own. Then he got up and brought back two forks, giving one to John. "So are you training to be therapist or something?" he asked, looking over at John.

"No. I was just asking," John shrugged.

"I see," Sherlock said. "Perhaps you should let me ask the questions . . . that is my job, you know." He took a bite of food and then set the box down. "How long do you think you'll need the cane?"

John shrugged. "My leg hurts when I walk. And it sounds like you do a lot of that -- ask people a bunch of questions . . ."

"Correct," Sherlock said. "I'd like to see the cane gone by . . . let's say, Friday, all right?" He looked around the room. "Well, you've met Mrs Hudson and Molly and Mike. At some point, you'll need to meet Lestrade and probably my brother, I'm afraid."

"I can't set a date for the cane. And someone asked me a bunch of questions about my breakfast once . . ." John watched Sherlock's face for any recognition.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "I'm not a big breakfast eater so you'll have to sort all that yourself." What was going on with this guy, he wondered. "Look, do you have some kind of eating disorder or something? Is that why you're so obsessed with food?"

"No," John laughed. "It's just something I remembered," he said.

"Who? Why? Is this a case? My fees are quite high, but I'll be happy to cut you a deal if there's something you want me to look into," Sherlock said.

"No, Sherlock. It was just a memory," John said. "And would you charge me? Your own flatmate?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "Why was he asking you about breakfast?" he asked instead.

John shrugged. "I never got a chance to ask. He wasn't very willing to answer my questions. He worried it'd mess up the data," he said.

There was something about the way John said the last bit that made something flash in Sherlock's mind. But it was a white sharp flash -- he couldn't see it clearly enough. He wasn't sure what it meant."Well, he was obviously intelligent. Research is easily biased without taking precautions," Sherlock said. "I wonder what it was all about."

John shrugged and continued eating for a bit. "I gave him my number but he never contacted me. I guess I'll never know," he said. He wondered how Sherlock would react if John just flat out asked him, but it seemed odd so he decided to let it go for now. "How long have you lived here? Have you always lived here by yourself?"

"Only a few days really," Sherlock said. "I moved some things in but wasn't sure I could take it on my own. Enter you, who has made it possible." He reached into his pocket. "Speaking of phones, what's your number?" He opened his contacts and started a new one. He typed John's name and then waited.

John told him the number and then pulled out his own phone. "Text me so I can enter yours," he said.

Sherlock typed the number and then a message. 

_John. SH_

Sherlock hit send and then save. When he did, he saw that there were now two John Watsons in his contact list. He clicked on the other one. The number was different, but he couldn't remember when or why he'd added it. He looked under Notes and saw that he'd typed in the word _breakfast_.

He looked over at John. And remembered.

But he didn't say anything. He just looked over at John. Then he coughed a little and said, "Did it come through?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm saving it now," he smiled. "I'll try not to bother you too much," he teased. 

"Good," Sherlock said. He stood up and made two cups of tea. He brought them back, setting one on the table in front of John. "So what are you all about, John Watson?" he asked, sitting back in his chair and holding his mug up to his face.

"What do you mean?" John asked, picking up his own mug. "You've deduced most of me," he smiled. 

"I think there might be more to you I've yet to learn," Sherlock said. He smiled. He sat quietly for a bit. "What now then? Are you going out to find a girlfriend tonight or just staying in?"

"Why do you say it like I've been playing hide and seek with her for years and she's hiding behind the sofa or something?" John laughed softly. "You keep bringing that up and I don't know why."

Sherlock thought about it for a moment -- he was bringing it up and he also wondered why. He looked over at John again. "Well, if you don't mind me saying, you seem like someone who doesn't want to be alone. You seem like someone who's always had a lot of friends and now you're back and alone and you're not . . . keen on it."

John took a long sip of tea. "Right again," he said quietly. He took a deep breath and let it out. "You're right. I don't like being alone because my thoughts start to weigh me down. But that doesn't mean I have to be out with some woman. A friend is nice too." 

"Women can't be your friends?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John nodded. "I suppose I meant to say that I don't require sex to be . . . not lonely."

"And men?"

"And men what?"

"They can just be your friends?"

"Sure. They can be anything," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So you're going to be dragging men back here as well?"

John rolled his own eyes. "Trust me, if I meet anyone I will go to theirs and you won't have to worry."

"So you're ditching me already?" Sherlock said. "No wonder your last long term relationship broke up."

"I'm not ditching you! And what do you know about my last long term relationship? I've had a couple more since I came back from training," he said without thinking.

"And the one before? Did she get sick of being ditched?"

"No," John said. "And anyways, I feel like I have to ask you again why you're so interested in my love life. Can't I enjoy a meal with you without being questioned about my partners?"

Sherlock smiled. So John remembered it was him.

"It's odd, isn't it? Meeting again?" he asked.

John meet his gaze with surprise. So Sherlock did remember after all. "Every time was odd, though at the cafe I had forgotten about the museum."

"What museum?" Sherlock asked.

"Remember in college? We were from different schools, but we spoke while I waited for the coach. I . . .well, you were my first kiss. Kind of," John admitted.

Sherlock coughed as he sat up. "That was you? What the hell is going on? Are you stalking me or something?" he said, kind of laughing even though it was a bit worrying.

"No! I'm sure it's coincidence. I hadn't thought of the museum the night you came . . . I mean, do you remember the time before this one?" John was nervous now, wondering how Sherlock would feel about John having seen him like that.

"Hold on," Sherlock said. "Stop." He stood up and went to his desk to get a piece of paper. He came back. "Okay, the museum was about twenty odd years ago . . . I think I was about 14 at the time. And the cafe -- how long ago did you join the Army?"

"That would have been in 2004."

"Odd," Sherlock said. "Those are the two times then."

"There was one more, actually . . ." John said.

"When? What other time are you talking about? I'm not sure I believe anything you say anymore," Sherlock said.

"In my last year of rounding at medical school I had to work in A & E and you were brought in . . . I'm not surprised you don't remember . . ." he trailed off and cleared his throat lightly. "And everything was just by chance -- I wasn't stalking you any more than you were stalking me."

Sherlock's face felt hot and he tried to keep it neutral. "Well," he said and swallowed hard. "Well, I wasn't stalking you."

"Well . . . good," John said, playing with his tea for a moment. "It's a strange coincidence the way we keep coming together, huh?"

"Hmmm . . . I don't know about coincidences," Sherlock said. "There's probably a reason for it. Now we just need to figure out what it is."  
  
"I don't know, Sherlock. It just seems like we grew up in close proximity and it just happened," John said. 

"Really? Is that what you believe? Do you know how many people live in 'close proximity 'to you whom you've never met, not even once? Fine. I'm sure you're right. I'm sure there's no reason that we've crossed paths in almost each decade of our lives. I'm sure it's . . . meaningless," Sherlock said, standing up. "I think I might go work in my room for a bit." He took John's dishes and set them in the sink.

"Well, what do you think it is then? Why don't you give me your brilliant theory since mine is so wrong?" John pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the door of the kitchen, leaning on the frame so he could cross his arms. 

Sherlock looked over at John. "I don't know what it is yet," he said. "But I can assure you it means something." He took a fresh cup of tea and went off to his room.

Once in there, he fiddled about with some more boxes, putting the rest of his clothes away. Then he lay down on the bed and looked at his phone -- at the note he'd left with John's old number. Why did he speak to John that day? Why?

Then he thought back to the museum and remembered spotting John in the crowd. No, not spotting him -- noticing him, _seeing_ him, _knowing_ that he was different in some way to the others. Why?

He opened a text and clicked John's new number.

_Why did you kiss me at the museum? SH_

John felt his phone go off in his pocket and he fished it out, glancing at Sherlock's closed door. 

_You were handsome and I thought you were nice. -JW_

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. Each time they'd met, at least the times he remembered, he had been a little bit too focused on relationships -- he remembered asking about it at the museum, and at breakfast, and then earlier today. Why?

_And do you still feel the same? SH_

_You're still handsome, yes. I'm still deciding on the nice. -JW_

John bit his lip and hoped Sherlock could tell that he was teasing. He was nice. He was strange, but that made John like him even more. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and hoped he wasn't about to make a mistake.

_You're handsome too. A little naive about coincidences maybe, but overall, nice. And handsome. SH_

John smiled and looked over at the door. 

_Are you hiding from me? Will you come back out? -JW_

_Have you made a fresh cup of tea? SH_

Sherlock smiled and took a deep breath. He slid off the bed and opened the bedroom door, moving to the kitchen to rinse out his mug.

"I've started the kettle for you," he said, leaning to try and catch Sherlock's eye. 

"Thanks," Sherlock said. He glanced over at John. "Look, I'm not very experienced in matters of . . . flirtation, yet I'm quite intrigued by what's going on. So . . . that's . . . what I wanted to say, I guess."

"Matters of flirtation," John repeated slowly, smiling even wider. "Just follow your instincts," he said. 

Sherlock poured his tea. "Want one as well?" he asked John.

"No, I'm okay," John said. "I only just finished the other mug."

Sherlock moved over to his chair and sat down. "So, I'm wondering . . . are we supposed to be . . . together, do you think?" he asked.

John tilted his head and nodded. "That could be a reason we keep running into each other," he said. 

"Well, I've never had a . . . thing like that before," Sherlock said. "You have. Seriously, think about it -- I'm not quite long term partner material, am I? What is bringing us together?"

"Fate?" John said, feeling a bit silly. "I couldn't tell you, really. But every time . . . it's been good, hasn't it? It has for me."

"What about when I was . . . poorly?" Sherlock said. "I can't say I remember anything about that."

John hesitated. "Well, that's wasn't the best time, I admit, but I helped you get better so that was good. Maybe that was fate too," he said. 

"We don't even know each other," Sherlock said, shifting a little in his chair. "Do we?"

"A few things," John said. "I know that you were fascinated by the Starry Night painting, and how cool it was that we were in the same room as something Van Gogh had touched. I know that you smoked cigarettes and you don't really like breakfast," he smiled. "I know you have an older brother and that you prefer unblemished data." 

"John," Sherlock said. "Okay, so you know some things. What do I know about you?" Sherlock felt he did know some things about John, possibly things John didn't even know he knew.

"Well, you tell me," John said, shifting in his seat a bit. "What do you know about me?"

"You're responsible, patient, brave and . . . handsome," Sherlock said. "None of those things seem to line up with my traits."

"They don't have to line up," John said. "We don't have to be exactly the same to be together."

"Opposites attract? I don't know, John," Sherlock said. "While I don't think it was ever consciously my decision, I seem to have become a rather unlikeable character. You're . . . very likeable. That feels like a big distinction."

"I like you," John said simply. 

"I like you, too," Sherlock said. "So . . . should we put the telly on?" he asked, getting up and moving over to the sofa with John.

"Um . . .sure," John nodded, looking around for the remote. He was a bit thrown off--they had both just revealed these feelings and now Sherlock just wanted to watch telly. Maybe he had misunderstood and thought John meant as just a friend? Did Sherlock mean as just friends? "I meant as more than friends just so . . . so you know," he added.  

"I'm aware," Sherlock said, looking over at the television. "I've had people try to be friends with me before . . . they don't usually start by going on about my being handsome." He glanced over and smiled, before turning back to look at the screen.

"Oh. Right, okay," John said. He faced the telly and fiddled with his trousers.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the table. He wiggled a bit to get comfortable, moving just a little closer to John. "I don't care what we watch," he said. "I'm not a big fan of most television."

"Oh. I'm sure I'll find a movie or something," John said, flipping through the channels.

Sherlock waited quietly while John chose a film. Then he leaned a little, letting his shoulder fall against John's. "This okay?" he whispered, without turning his head.

John realised now that Sherlock's behaviour was more about nerves than disinterest, and it made him feel a little nervous as well. "It's okay," he murmured, nodding his head.

Sherlock reached over and held John's hand. It was a little awkward in the angle, but he held onto it.

John smiled and held Sherlock's hand back. "This is nice too," he said.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. They sat watching the television together. When the film ended, Sherlock looked over at John and said, "I'm going to try to kiss you now" and then leaned in and gave him a soft but quick kiss on the mouth.

John smiled and leaned his forehead on Sherlock's. "I'm going to kiss you too," he said, leaning in and pressing a kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"That was good," Sherlock said, leaning his head against the back of the sofa a bit. He looked over at John and smiled. They were still holding hands.

John smiled and leaned on his shoulder with a happy sigh.

After a while, Sherlock stretched his body a little. "My muscles feel tight," he said. He dropped John's hand. "I might go to bed, I think," Sherlock said. "Maybe read for a little while or something. Okay?"

"Um, okay," John said, leaning away from him and sitting up. "Do you want to read alone?"

"I think so," Sherlock said. "I . . . I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"

John nodded. "Okay. I'll see you," he said. He pushed himself up and shut the telly. "I'll go up to bed as well. Good night." 

Sherlock got ready for bed and went into his room. He crawled into bed and reached for a book then he immediately set it down on the table. The last twenty four hours in his life had been quite unusual. He lay there and thought about that for a while before eventually falling asleep.


	6. At The Museum Again

John didn't remember dozing off but suddenly he was blinking in the light streaming from the window. He groaned and got up, opening the curtains properly and heading down to make tea. He leaned towards Sherlock's door and wondered if he was awake. He went to knock on the door softly. "Sherlock? I'm making tea."

"What?" Sherlock said, sitting up quickly. For a moment, he forgot where he was and who might be speaking to him. He rolled over. Then he remembered the things that had happened last night. He slowly got up and put his dressing gown on. He opened his bedroom door and went straight to the bathroom before going into the kitchen. "I'm not good in the morning, really," Sherlock said, standing and waiting for his tea.

"I just didn't want you have cold tea," John said.

"Don't try to be nice," Sherlock said. He took his mug and moved to his chair. He sat silently for a few minutes before taking a drink.

"Right. I'll remember that," he said, having his own tea in the kitchen.

"Do you sleep okay?" Sherlock asked, turning to look round. "I'm awake now," he said as if to explain.

"It was all right," John shrugged. "It's always a bit hard in a new place. I'll get used to it."

"Is the bed, okay?"

"Oh yeah, it's comfortable," he said. He put some bread in the toaster and leaned against the counter to wait.

Sherlock looked up quickly. "I wasn't asking because . . . I was just trying to make small talk. I'm not great at it and probably worse in the morning."

"I know," John said. "But I mean it. It's comfortable, more than my old bed."

"The bed in my room's pretty comfortable," Sherlock said. "I mean, I'm just saying. . . I didn't mean . . ." He rubbed his face with his hand. "God, I should just not talk in the morning, I think."

"Just relax, okay? It's fine," John assured him. He buttered his toast and brought the jam to the table to eat.

Sherlock got up and moved over to the table. "Look," he said, sitting down. "I have an idea. Let's go to the museum today."

John looked up and right about it for a moment. It would involve a lot of walking, which he could deal with, but could Sherlock? He'd already made a comment about the cane. "I'll be slow -- will that be okay?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "I don't care about that." He smiled.

"All right. I'll get ready as soon as I finish up here," he said.

Sherlock stood up and went into the bathroom to shower. He got dressed and waited for John in the sitting room. He hoped that maybe going back to where it all began might help him understand what was going on.

John took a quick shower after breakfast and got dressed, meeting Sherlock about an hour later in the sitting room. "I'm ready when you are," he said.

"You take a long time getting ready," Sherlock said. "I mean, it's fine," he smiled weakly. "Let's go."

They grabbed a taxi to the museum. They were quiet during the ride. When they got out, Sherlock reached over and grabbed John's hand as they walked in.

"Oh, you don't have to help . . . I mean, you can go faster without me," John said, trying to wiggle his hand away.

"Shush now," Sherlock said, grabbing his hand again. "We're not in a race -- we're going to walk through this building together. That's what we're here to do. The speed doesn't matter." He smiled. He thought about it for a moment -- he really meant what he said. What was happening to him, why was he being so . . . nice?

"Okay," John resigned, holding Sherlock's hand and walking slowly through the museum. John pointed out his favourites, he listened to all of Sherlock's little facts and deductions, and he had to admit he was having a very nice time.

"This is the room I first saw you in," Sherlock said. "I can remember it clearly. I remember seeing you and knowing you . . . meant something." He looked over at John.

"My friend asked me to kiss that lady," he said, pointing to the portrait of the naked woman. "You were a better choice," he smiled.

"I'm glad you kissed me," Sherlock said. He leaned over and gave John a quick kiss. "Was that okay?"

John nodded. "Yeah, it was," he smiled.

"Good," Sherlock said, smiling back. They wandered through the rest of the museum, stopping for a while at the Van Gogh. "I don't even know why I like this," he said. "But I do." They moved on to a painting of two children at the beach. "I like this one as well."

John looked up and agreed. "At the cafe I must have subconsciously remembered the Van Gogh. I drew stars on the napkin I gave you."

"God, you're good," Sherlock said smiling. "Nice touch." He squeezed his hand again and they walked out. Sherlock moved them over to the place they had stood all that time ago. He kissed John again. "I don't remember all the conversation but I remember . . . feeling something."

John nodded. "I was brave that day. Of course I thought I'd never see you again but I'm very glad that I have," he smiled.

"It's odd -- I feel like we've known each other a long time, even though we technically haven't," Sherlock said.

"That's how I feel," John said.

"Let's go home, John," Sherlock said. He hailed a cab and this time he sat quite close to John on the ride home. Once they got back to the flat, he led them in and pulled John into his room. "Let's just lie down by each other," Sherlock said. "Nothing . . . no pressure, I mean. It's just awkward on the sofa and I'd like to just be . . . close to you. Is that okay?"  
  
"Yes, I would like that," John said. He hesitated before dropping his cane and climbing onto Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock slid next to him and turned them to face each other. "I'm glad we found each other again," he said softly. He put a soft kiss on John's mouth.

"I'm glad we did too," John murmured, pressing into the kiss just a bit harder. 

Sherlock snuggled into John. "I hope I can do all this right, John," Sherlock said. "I'll try." He pressed a kiss against John's neck as if to seal his promise.

"You will," John assured him, tilting his head back a bit. "Just trust your instincts."

Sherlock continued to kiss John's neck, moving his mouth gently up and down, covering all of it. He tangled their legs a little, letting a hand fall to John's hip and then move to the small of his back.

John arched a bit into his touch, his body lining up and forming to Sherlock's. His breathing had changed and his own hand was moving up and down Sherlock's back and shoulders. 

Sherlock slowed his kisses and then just squeezed himself against John, holding him tightly.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and closed his eyes with a content sigh. Silently he thanked everything he could think of -- whatever complex magic it was -- for bringing them together again. For the first time in a while he truly felt like he was home.

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe.
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments -- they mean so much.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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